A New Beginning
by singingelephants
Summary: This is meant to be the first in a series of fanfictions focused on Clint Barton and Natasha Romanov. This one is about Clint being recruited by agent Coulson, and Natasha does not yet appear in it. Note: the relationship between Coulson and Clint Barton is only one of friends or mentor/mentee. Ibam horrible at summaries, but please give the story a try :).
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone. After the hurricane Irma passed through my city, I was not able to update my other story, and came up with a different idea (Dont worry though, I will finish it). I have decided to pause my writing of Natalia Romanov, and focus on this one first, which will be taking place in the same universe, at a much earlier time. I also plan in expanding the universe far beyond these two stories. I hope not to dissappoint anyone with the idea, and that you all enjoy the project that I am working on. The plan is to get one chapter published every week ( most probably each Sunday). Thank you for reading.**

Cold. That was all he felt as the back end of the arrow brushed against his cheek; all he felt as it dug through the heart of its target and the blood surged to the surface while the victim choked. That was all he felt when Catherine Lambert ran to her father's side and her broken cry echoed through the slums of Brooklyn, while a million faces glanced and walked away. That only showed how much those arrows were feared, or how heartless the people, or the world, to let an innocent girl of seven orphaned.

The numbness persisted as he himself walked through the streets, away from the yet another victim. It left him empty, devoid of any feelings or emotions, devoid of any right to feel. The basic rights of humanity did not apply to one such as him, a murderer, a man who kills for money, who leaves children orphaned and wives widowed, who hunts men as mere animals in the wild and leaves them to bleed on the cold asphalt as hunters do a useless catch.

Throughout the gang infested, underground world of New York City the name Hawkeye was renown. In every criminal-ruled corner of the country, of the Earth, there was not one who could hear the name Hawkeye, or see an arrow fly through the air, and not tremble in fear and respect. None, however, knew of Clint Barton; the man who went to bed every night and could not sleep; the man whose hands were dripping red, and whose conscious tortured every second of every day; the man who hopelessly searched for a way out, knowing that he was trapped, that a chain of bad decisions combined with ill fortune had led him were he was, and that the only way out was with a bullet; the man who felt guilty for breathing, angry for his guilt, and a coward for his anger.

At the SHIELD headquarters in New York, Director Fury had already given the order: Hawkeye was to be eliminated, neutralized, like so many victims. No information was known of the marksman, other than his signature weapon, estimated number of kills, and approximate current location. Phil Coulson led the mission, a team of SHIELD's best agents ready to kill on sight.

When they arrived at the margin of the location, the agents were separated and sent to search. At an instant, arrows flew through the wind and landed on the chests of agents, coming from different directions, as if their owner could teleport from building to building in a matter of seconds, without being seen. Three agents wounded, none dead. Agent Coulson was the first to spot the aggressor; a glimpse at a legend. The man had dirty blond hair and a good built. He was crouching in front of Coulson and slowly stood up and pierced him with his eyes; eyes so blue and young, yet at the same time so heavy with suffering. Phil Coulson could not bring himself to shoot. The man in front of him looked to be 19 or 20 at most, a boy, not what he had expected from the renown killer, and the look on his face spoke of hidden sentiment, emotions suppressed with the years, not of the hatred and vengeance that often marked a killer's eyes.

Barton, Hawkeye, did not see the man there before he landed. He was hidden behind the shadows of the surrounding buildings, and so when he found himself crouching before one of his prosecutors, it was too late to reconsider. He stared at him and quickly brought out his arrow and set it on the bow, ready for the kill. The way the man looked at him, however, detained him a moment longer. His eyes held pity and confusion, not the fear that he was so well accustomed to. His rival held a gun in his hand yet had it pointed at the ground, he showed no signs of wanting to kill him, yet that was impossible, he deserved to die. He found himself lowering the arrow and walking away, jumping to the next building and continuing his fight, as if uninterrupted, but his mind clouded with the memory of what occurred.

Six months passed, and Phil Coulson had his mind still set on the assassin that had spared his life; the young man that he thought he could save. It took a long while while to persuade Fury to consider the man a potential , valuable asset, and even longer to locate said man, but Coulson had finally achieved it. He was headed towards Chicago, Illinois, where the Hawkeye had been spotted a few hours ago. The flight took - hours, and, as soon, as it landed, agents were positioned around all the possible locations with instructions to contact Coulson if the target was spotted.

 **Please, if you are interested, comment and let me know. That makes me want to keep writing. Also, if there is anything that you would like to suggest or any advice, feel free to send it to me as well (though not all suggestions will be met). Thank you for getting this far.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again. I already had this writen, so I could not detain myself from posting it. Disclaimer: I dont own anything. Hope yoh enjoy it!**

Clint jumped from the roof of the building and rolled unto the one next to it. He already had three bullets in him, as well as a bruised ribcage. This kind of job will earn a person many enemies, and someone decided to eradicate him before he did them. As he landed, the pain shot through his body in the likeness of a lighting bolt when it strikes, numbing his abdomen and rendering him motionless for a few seconds. One of the masked men landed behind him and kicked him on the back, sending yet another flash of pain. He recovered quickly, though not fully, and managed to land his arrow between his prosecutor's eyebrows. One more down, two to go. He continued to run through the roofs of buildings, trying to gain some distance, and landed in an alley, where he met the eyes of another masked individual. His grip on the bow tightened with each painful breath, until he managed enough momentum to raise it against his opponent, but before either he or the man could take a shot, the latter fell to the ground with a bullet wound on his back, revealing, behind him, another man, wearing a neatly pressed suit, ruffled only by the current circumstances.

The Hawkeye tried to focus his eyesight, as blots of black clouded his vision and every light in the city seemed to blur and grow into a miniature Sun. He raised his bow again and pointed towards the general direction of the suited man. The other slowly walked towards him and pulled the weapon from his already shaking hands.

For the first time in many years, Clint allowed himself to feel fear. He had lost all control over the situation and was exhausted from the pain and the adrenaline. He had been attacked in an alley by a band of ten trained individuals. The Hawkeye had given them a good fight, but after putting arrows in six of them, and punching down two more, he had received his fair share of injuries. Now he was powerless, standing before a man with a gun. The blood loss was causing him to feel dizzy, and he heard voices in the back of his mind, calling to him, calling to Hawkeye, yet he could not device what they said. Then it all turned dark.

...

He woke up to the sound of a mechanical beeping, and the shine of a blinding light that penetrated through his eyes.

"Ah! Good morning Mr. Barton."

The awareness of someone else's presence made his instincts fire, and he immediately attempted to stand up, only to find that his arms and legs were bound to the bed.

"No no no. Calm down! You wont be able to get out of those anyway. They are SHIELD technology."

"Who are you? What the hell is SHIE-"

"Barton! I'm glad your awake." The suited man walked into Clint's line of sight with an appearance of nonchalance "my superior was getting impatient. My name is Phil Coulson. I am an agent of SHIELD, and this here.." he pointed towards the other habitant of the room " is Doctor Nieva, he has been helping you heal. Are you feeling alright?"

"What the hell is SHIELD?"

"A secret intelligence organization that handles... superior threats"

"Am I your prisoner?"

"Depends.."

"On?" He barked, admittedly annoyed at the ease with which the suited man- Coulson- spoke.

"On whether you accept a certain proposition" the faint shadow of a smile graced Coulson's features "but there will be time for that later. The Doctor here needs to examine you."

Doctor Nieva, hearing his cue, approached Barton with a thermometer.

"If you take one more step you will regret it."

"Careful now. He saved your life." Said Coulson, with the same sly smile.

"You know, I remember you. You were one of the men trying to kill me, some time ago, I walked away from you. I should have killed you when I had the chance, not to say that that can't still hap-"

"And I could have killed you, when I found you injured in an alley, but you are at a medical facility instead. SHIELD's medical facility. I would say, you were rather lucky to not have shot me six months ago."

With that, the doctor began to approach again, and Clint did not attempt to scare him away, though he scowled at the man through the entire procedure. Coulson's smile did not seem to abandon his face.

"What is your proposition? You want me to kill someone?"

"I wouldn't ask an injured man to kill someone."

"I'm not injured"

Coulson raised a brow.

"Besides, I don't need your help to kill someone. I could, however, help you."

"Help me?" Asked Barton with a scoff.

"I could offer you a job. I have a feeling you don't quite enjoy your current one"

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, I might be wrong, but, considering the fact that you spared me, I don't take you for the sort of man who would enjoy killing the innocent" and he started walking towards the door. "Just, think about it."

"How do you my name?"

Agent Coulson gave him another one of those smiles, that were slowly beginning to irritate him.

"Digital prints. Welcome to SHIELD" and he walked out.

...…...

After the doctor was done examining him, Clint was left alone in the clinic, under the instructions of getting some rest. That, however, was impossible. His mind twisted with a mixture of suspicion and unspoken hope. He had been given the opportunity of walking away from the bloody live that he had led the past two years. He could join SHIELD; join the good guys; make a life for himself. But, then again, it could all be just another lie, just another trick of life. Would it be worth it to accept? As these questions surged through his mind, Barton fell into a light sleep, and, some hours later, Agent Coulson walked in. Clint blinked the sleep out of his eyes.

"Feeling better?"

"Can you untie me?"

"Sorry. Safety precautions." Said Coulson, not sounding very sorry.

"Have you thought about my work offer?"

"I could have killed you that time on the roof."

"I am aware, and you seem to enjoy reminding me"

"I didn't then, so I wont now."

"Your point is?"

"You should untie me"

"I thought you were having second thoughts about killing me"

"I wont kill you"

"Have you thought about my work offer?"

Clint sighed "yes"

"And?"

"Why do you want me to work for you?

You already caught me, you could just throw me in prison"

"You could have killed me that time on the roof"

"You could have killed me in the alley, debt payed."

Coulson's face lit up with another half smile. "I think you would make a good asset. Besides, you would escape from prison, and, though I could kill you, you are worth more alive than dead."

Clint smirked.

"So, what is your answer? Do you want to work for the good guys?"

 **Please Please tell me what you think about the story!**

 **Also, sorry for any mistakes, and feel free to correct me.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello everyone. I hope that you enjoy chapter 3 of my story. Please let me know what you think. I LOVE comments! (Even if they are constructive critisism) thank you for reading my story :)**

Clint followed Coulson through the metallic hallways of the SHIELD headquarters, half ignoring everything the other man said. He had, of course, accepted the offer. It had taken some time to decide, but everyone who had a good heart wanted to be one of the good guys, to be a part of something bigger than oneself, everyone wanted to have backup, if need be, even Clint Barton.

"- this here is the training gym. You shouldn't be going there yet, since you are still slightly injured."

"I'm fine"

"Of course you are"

The man's sarcasm and one sided smiles had become something that he expected, yet continued to feel both amused and annoyed by.

"And this is the room that you will be sharing with three other strike agents."

"Strike?"

"They are part of a strike team. Work on secondary missions, following the lead of another agent."

"I thought you wanted me for my skills. To be an actual agent, not one of your... trained dogs that jumps to a targets throat when you tell them to."

"That's right. I want you to be a more specialized sort of agent. Collect intel, handle major missions, take down targets from our hit list, not just people who are on the way. I want you to reach that point, but you are not there yet."

"Not there yet?" Clint rose a brow.

"All agents of SHIELD, before they actually join SHIELD, are required to go to the academy, and, after they are done there, they take a test. That test determines whether or not they will be taken in as specialized agents, strike team agents, or simply not taken in at all." Coulson took in a deep breath.

"You, of course, will not be going to the academy, but you will have to take the test."

"A test?" Clint sneered suspiciously at Coulson.

"It is based on the skills necessary to be an agent of SHIELD. Hand to hand, distance shooting, chemistry, language, and espionage."

"Why chemistry and language?"

"Reading, writing, and speaking in, at least, three languages is necessary to be a specialized agent; at least one to be a strike team agent. Traveling and communication comes with the job. Chemistry is necessary in order to identify and, use or avoid, certain substances, which is also a big part of the job."

"Okay."

"I've read your file as Clint Barton, now that we have your name. There are no records of you attending school since you were in the 1st grade. Did you ever learn to read and write fluently?"

Clint sighed "I speak and understand four languages: Ukrainian, English, German, and French, I understand but cannot speak two more: Spanish and Italian."

"You are deflecting."

"I am listing my skills"

"Can you read and write any of them?"

Barton the looked away, with a tinge of shame in his eyes.

"No"

"Thats alright. You have six months before the test. What about Chemistry?"

"Not important for a sniper"

"Yet crucial for a SHIELD agent. Your tutor will meet you in room 8967, at 7:00 tomorrow morning, don't be late!"

"Tutor?"

Coulson smirked and shut the door.

Indeed, when Clint found his way into the conference in the morning- at nearly 8:30- there she was. A tutor.

"Good morning Mr. Barton, thank you for coming early, I always appreciate dedicated students. Shall we begin?"

"Early?"

"Oh!- Uh- yes, well. Agent Coulson instructed me to tutor you beginning at 9 in the morning." Said the 'tutor' checking her watch. And Clint smirked. Coulson had tricked him. He was slowly, but surely, developing a certain... respect/ admiration/ likability for the man... anyway, he enjoyed Coulson's way of surprising him, even in situations like the present one.

"Very Well, lets begin with English. Could you, to the best of your ability, read the passage in front of you?"

Clint began, and failed. The subject of his education was a delicate one. He did not like it to be known that he could hardly read, so having to humiliate himself in front of the 'tutor' was... well, humiliating.

He had gone through life without anyone noticing his lack of education, so having to prove himself now, equally embarrassed and angered him. And he covered up in the best way he knows how.

...

The class lasted about 2 hours, and, in that time, Clint made more jokes and sarcastic comments than even he thought possible. He then got his lunch at the cafeteria, and sat on the table on the corner. It was mind baffling.

The smells that filled the room, and the constant chatter of the other agents. The sound of plates clanking against each other and the constant movement that brought this place to life. An organization full of people ready to do good, and he was a part of it. Well, sort of. He had to go to the tutor every morning, and pass the stupid test, but, maybe someday he could actually feel as if he were a part of something.

"She quit." Coulson sat down at his table with a serious expression.

"Garcia- the tutor- she asked to be transferred to another student. She said, and I quote "Never have I felt that two hours were so wasted"

Clint smirked.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing"

Coulson raised a brow.

"Just some harmless joking. I honestly didn't see a point to that story she made me read."

"Did you actually read it?"

At that, Clint's smirk dropped and Coulson sighed.

"I am going on a mission, I'll get another tutor to come and teach you. You will do well Barton. The records show that you are quite intelligent." And he left.

...

It had been a long four days. Coulson abandoned the jet with his duffel in his hand. The mission had been a success, in fact, it was extremely easy, too easy, boring... some might say. But the boredom would not last long. He still had one foot in the jet when Maria Hill came walking towards him, at a fast pace. Barton.

"Your protege managed to annoy his second tutor, to the point where she quit. After two days!"

"Well, the first one only lasted one day, I'd say it's an improvement."

Agent Hill glared at him.

" no other tutor is willing to come and help him, and you know that he needs help in order to pass that test, so you need to figure out a way to feed him the information he needs, or there is no way he is becoming a field agent."

Coulson sighed

"Okay. Alright, I'll see what I can do"

"He is at the medical facility. For his check up"

"Okay."

...

"Uh- yes- um- this wounds seem to be healing quite nicely- yes."

Doctor Nieva poked and peaked around his body, quite cautiously. And looked about ready to run, in case the archer decided that he did not want to be cooperative.

Clint only stared, in silence; he was not in the mood for conversation. The medical facility was not his favorite place to be at. The only reason he had agreed to go, was because he actually wanted to be a part of SHIELD, and he figured that he had already broken enough rules by getting rid of two tutors in less than a week.

The white walls and metallic instruments, which shined ominously as they reflected the light, all made him feel exposed. It's as if he were waiting for his captor to begin the torture , while only sitting there and waiting. It was not Clint's nature to allow another human being to help him heal. He could do it himself.

"Ah yes. You should be ready to begin physical training in about two more week-"

"Morning Doc."

"Ah- Agent Coulson. How did your mission go? Do you need any assistance?"

"No I'm alright Doc. Thank you. Clint can I talk you outside."

Clint followed him outside the infirmary, and Coulson breathed deeply, as if buying time to think.

"I need to find a way for you to learn all you need to know before the test, and apparently the tutors aren't convincing enough, so..."

Thats it. That is the point of the sentence where he would be shunned away. Clint never gave himself a chance to trust anyone, precisely because he knew that good-natured help could never last. It was his own fault really, the Hawkeye's fault. He was a murderer who did not make it easy for any to help him, and why should he? It was only logical that he who is willing to help a bad man does it only out of trickery.

"So I have decided to take some time off being a field agent. I am your new unofficial handler."

What? Clint thought, yet he did not speak. Should he continue to trust this man? What reason has he to help? But Coulson did not give him a chance to refuse. He walked away.

"Tomorrow at 7:00."

...

For the first time since arriving at SHIELD (about one week prior) Clint honored his companion by being on time. At 7:00 he arrived at the conference room, mostly because, if he gave himself time to think, he would not go at all, and he did want this.

When he walked in, Coulson greeted him with one of his half smiles and invited him to sit down.

"Alright. Let's start with the periodic table..."

Coulson then set forth to explain the properties and atomic mass and number for each element. He taught Clint how to read the periodic table, and each detail that he could learn about the elements by just looking at their box. He also showed some of them to Clint in vials, and taught him the signs he could use to identify them.

Chemistry is a complicated subject on its own, but Coulson made a point of trying to make it entertaining to the archer, trying to relate it to the things he already knew. And Clint found himself, if only slightly, enjoying the class. He had always loved to learn, when he was younger, but, at this point in his life, he found it physically taxing to actually listen to someone he did not have any respect for, as were his two previous tutors. Coulson, on the other hand, and despite his distrust, had saved his life, and he was willing to show the man at least some level of respect.

 **Please tell me what you think :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello everyone. Sorry I am a little bit lage for this one. I hope you enjoy it. Please review :) and thank you all for reading my story!**

Clint sat alone at the SHIELD cafeteria. He had avoided sitting with anybody for the past two weeks, and now everyone had mostly learned to respect his space. The classes with Coulson were going well. He was actually paying attention and chemistry was coming easily to him. Coulson had even begun to practice reading and writing with him in English.

He still felt quite unsure, however. Why? Why was Coulson trying so desperately to help him? In his experience, it was not common for people to simply be good hearted, there was always an ulterior motive, he just had to figure out Coulson's.

His thoughts were interrupted by a plate that was plopped in front of his. He leveled his companion with a glare, that usually works... Michael. He was one of the strike team agents that had just come back from a mission. He had arrived yesterday, so he did not yet know Clint enough to stay out of his way.

"Stop staring at me Robin Hood"

"What do you want?"

"You should get another table. There are plenty empty, and this one is taken." He tried the glare again. He really was not one for company.

His companion just laughed.

"You want me to move Robin Hood? Make me."

He really did not know Clint's reputation.

So Clint did as he was told.

He was not an expert at hand-to-hand, better suited for the bow and arrow. But he could definitely hold his own, and he was a lot stronger than Michaels.

Clint landed a punch on his adversary's jaw, and Michaels reciprocated by aiming at his throat. Clint easily blocked the punch and pushed Michaels back.

At that point, they had gathered an audience around them and Michaels closed the distance between them in order to whisper something in Clint's ear.

Due to the distraction, Michaels managed to hit Clint right under the eye, but Clint thrust his foot unto the strike agent's rib cage, making it crack painfully. The opponent then caught Clint's foot in his hands, and Clint used that as a momentum to pull him down and hit him on the jaw again.

The fight continued for only a few more seconds, as one of the strike trainers showed up, and called for them to be broken up at once. They were both then sent down to the infirmary.

...

"Well, you got a pretty bad punch under the eye, but nothing serious... yes.. you- you should be alright" mumbled Dr. Nieva and Clint made as if to stand up and leave.

"You really should stop visiting me so often though." A slight smirk adorned the doctor's mouth, Clint noticed, and he was also, though slowly, becoming less guarded towards his new patient.

Clint was quite close to grant the man a half smile. The doctor was nice, if nothing else, and, he too, had contributed to saving his life. What stopped him from the act of kindness, was the memory of what Michaels whispered to him during the fight

You are only a murderer Hawkeye, and SHIELD will sooner or later know that.

The words painfully twisted in his gut, making him realize a couple of things. One: Michaels was right. SHIELD would abandon him sooner or later, and Two: At some point in this two weeks, that had begun to matter.

Clint was, slowly but surely, finding comfort in SHIELD. He was learning what he had not in school. He was surrounded by people who were willing to do good, and he had found within himself, his old reluctance to do anything that would cause an innocent harm. Yet, Michaels was still right. He was not like this people. He was a murderer, and it would not be long before they threw him out (and if they didn't- well, if they didn't throw him out, then that only served to prove that they should not be trusted.

Clint excited the infirmary, without giving Dr. Nieva a second glance, and headed towards the conference room, where Coulson must already be waiting for him.

...

"You are late- Barton. What the hell happened to you?"

"What chapter do I open to sir?"

Barton never called him sir. Several of the tutors and other SHIELD agents of higher rank, had insisted on the title, but Coulson did not mind him using his name.

Clint, however, decided that it was time to begin distancing himself... before it was too late.

Coulson noticed the evation of the subject, but, after noticing the tension on Clint's shoulders, decided to follow along.

"Chapter 26"

The class followed on as usual. Coulson explained several aspects of chemistry, and then moved on to help Clint with his reading. The kid was a natural. He usually picked up on all of the information at the speed of light, and was even able to write competent reports by now, of the mock missions that Coulson would describe. But, today, there was something wrong. Clint lost focus easily and found himself stumbling over he information provided by his "unofficial handler". He did not want to continue to owe this man. He did not want to continue to depend on him for knowledge; to continue to trust him, and that was interfering with his desire to learn and his concentration.

After noticing that the class was going nowhere, Coulson decided to give his newest protege a break.

"Alright. We can continue tomorrow."

Clint stood up to leave.

"Barton!"

He turned back.

"Everything okay?"

And Clint locked his eyes with his, before nodding his head.

He was trying to read him, Coulson knew. And he let him do it. Maybe that will help the kid gain some trust.

...

Clint walked into his shared room, which was empty for the time being, and sat down on the bed to think. His current circumstances were giving him a headache, and he had no idea how to handle all of it.

When he looked at Coulson he did not see within him any ulterior motives, not even any masked annoyance for his lack of cooperation in today's class. All that he could observe within the man was a genuine desire to help. Could it be possible? Clint fell asleep to this thoughts, and woke up at 3:00 in the morning drenched in cold sweat.

It took him a few seconds to decipher that he was at SHIELD; that he was, in fact, safe. His dreams turned more vivid every time he had them. He could see the arrow as it flew from his vow and dug into the victims skin. He could hear the screams of the little girl as clear as if she were standing next to him.

When he looked around the room, he noticed that his roommates were already present, and he felt the sudden need to escape; the need to be alone, as he was so accustomed to.

Without any further thoughts he ran out of the room and stumbled upon the door to the janitors storage room. Upon opening it, he found the drop-down stairs that led to the roof, and, without a second thought, climbed to his freedom.

The view was magnificent. Such a stark difference from the cold metallic corridors of the SHIELD base. He could see millions upon millions of tiny lights, each representing a home, a family or lone person that lived in New York city. The stars could barely be seen, but to his advanced eyesight they popped out faintly. He breathed in the cold night air, and his lungs filled with an immense illusion of freedom, but an illusion nonetheless. Clint knew he would never be free, not after being who he has been, doing was he has done. If he stayed at SHIELD, then he would forever be bound to them, or at least until they decided they no longer needed them, but if he left, then he would be a slave to the gushing red blood that dripped from his 'ledger'. And, whichever his decision, he would continue to be a prisoner to his past. The past and dreams that would continuously hunt him ( not that he deserved any better.)

He fell asleep again, and some hours later woke up to a more pleasant thought. He dreamt of when he woke up at the SHIELD medical facility (perhaps not completely pleasant). That dream reminded him of the second chance that he had been given and his mind reached a different outlook: if SHIELD truly would help him, then he could become a person of good, if they did not, the he would get nothing besides what he, in his own opinion, had set himself up for.

He arrived at the cafeteria were breakfast was being served, only to find Coulson waiting for him.

"How did you sleep?" The man was absently tapping at his cup. That could only mean one thing: unpleasant news.

Clint only nodded his head in acknowledgement, and Coulson mirrored his action, for unknown reasons. Perhaps a nervous tick? Irrelevant.

"The psychiatrist wants to meet with you today. In order to become an agent of SHIELD you need to pass a psych eval."

Coulson provided the information with a nonchalant tone. If it were not for his physical cues, Clint would have believed that man did not have a care in the world.

He decided to work with his handler for today; to ease the man's mind.

"Okay" said he, in an equally careless tone, and Coulson's brow rose in the slightest before his face settled back to its usual ease.

...

Clint arrived at the psychiatrist's office and was asked to answer some questions about himself, most of which he was not too comfortable with, so he decided to be a little creative with the answers.

"How do you feel about joining SHIELD?"

"It has been my dream since I can remember." Said Clint with a tone of exaggerated nostalgia.

The psychiatrist leveled him with a glare, but Clint could care less. She was nowhere near the least of people that he felt even the most infinitesimal respect or regard for.

Halfway through the eval, however, she seemed to be done with his informalities and sent him to Coulson's office while picking up the phone and, presumably, contacting the man in question.

He was right.

When he entered Coulson's office, his handler's expressive face just screamed one question: why?

Clint had the grace to look slightly bashful, but his expression was quickly replaced by a green. He was in a good mood.

Despite his nightmare last night, and his troubles the day before, his resolution from this morning had eased a lot tension from his shoulders. Also, the psychiatrist's appointment had been fun, if only because he had not exactly followed directions.

"Take a sit" Coulson's voice was gently, and lint obeyed.

"How do you feel about joining SHIELD?"

Clint looked up with a hint of confusion and Coulson just looked frustrated.

"Seriously? Why do I even need to answer that?"

Coulson just looked even more exasperated, if that was possible, and, after taking a breath, he huffed out:

"You know what? No one needs to know." As he began to fill out the papers with fake answers and putting checkmarks in all the necessary slots.

"Congratulations! You passed"

And Clint just grinned.

 **Please review :)**


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